A Tangled Web (19 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY -SIX

The Reverend Nigel Brooks strode through the snow, pleased with the crisp air and fresh wind, happily contemplating the prospect of a successful concert. After Christmas, he thought, I can start on the regular church choir. Several of the men, chaps like Colin Osman, could surely be persuaded to join, and then he would visit the parents of some of the likely children and see if he could enlist their support.

As he approached Barnstones, he saw Gabriella at the gate, without a coat, her arms wrapped around herself in a protective gesture, and as he came up he was startled by her greeting.

'You'd better not come in, Nigel,' she said, unsmiling. 'I'll just tell you here and now. The concert's off, unless you can do it without me. I shall never set foot in your lousy church again, and if you want to know why, ask your loyal little wife!'

She turned and ran back into the house, slamming the door shut with a wood-splitting crash.

Nigel stared at the house for a moment, then began to open the gate.

'Reverend Brooks!' It was Michael Roberts, a shovel over his shoulder, coming along on the opposite side of the road. 'Mornin', Vicar,' he said, 'just off to see if you want the snow cleared from your drive?'

They set off together, Nigel reflecting that perhaps he had better not tackle Gabriella, and anxious to see what exactly Sophie had been up to. She had certainly been acting rather strangely these last few days.

He left Michael Roberts shovelling mounds of snow and gravel, and approached the front door. To his surprise, he saw it stood wide open, and no Ricky bounded to greet him. There was nobody in the kitchen, and he went around the rest of the house, calling loudly for Sophie.

Finally he gave up, took off his cloak and hung it in the echoing hall, and went to sit in his study. I need to think, he said to himself. There's something very wrong here.

The study was quiet and warm. It was a dark room, and Nigel put on his desk lamp, throwing a pool of yellow light on to the polished leather top. He bowed his head and said a small prayer for help and guidance. A few clues would be useful, he muttered.

Almost at once the ridiculous verse of Robert's harvest song came into his mind. Sophie had made a little scene about that, he remembered. But he'd soon set her straight, thought she'd put it out of her mind.

'And it's only 'is collar what stops him proposing A tandem with nice Mrs ]ones.'

Round and round it went in his head, until he put his hand over his ears and stood up. That was it. Sophie was jealous, jealous of Gabriella Jones. And now all the words and occasions which could have fuelled her jealousy came flooding back to Nigel. Oh, my dear God, he groaned, what have I done?

Bill Turner was heaving boxes of supplies on to shelves in the store room at the back of the shop, with Peggy directing operations. It was nearly lunchtime, and a quiet time for custom.

'This should last you well into the New Year,' said Bill.

'There's always a last-minute rush before Christmas,' said Peggy. 'Doris said it was the same every year. Then I expect January and February will be the usual dreary months, when I shall be lucky to take enough to keep the shop going.'

'Don't worry, gel,' said Bill, 'we'll think of ...'He broke off, listening to the sounds from the shop. 'You've got a customer, I think,' he said.

Peggy walked through, and saw Sophie Brooks standing by the counter, wearing an old jacket, buttoned crookedly, her hair covered with snow. Her face was pale with her mouth drawn into a narrow line. She held a leather lead tightly in her hand, and the old black dog stood obediently at her side.

'Sophie!' said Peggy. 'What on earth's the matter?' She was so shocked by her friend's appearance that she forgot to remind her that no dogs were allowed in the shop.

'Can I speak to you, Peggy?' she whispered. And then, seeing Bill in the kitchen, she added, 'It's very urgent and very private.'

'I'm off, Peg,' said Bill, knowing a crisis when he saw one.

'Let me know if you need any help.'

For the first time since Frank died, Peggy locked the shop door in the middle of the day and put up a little note saying, 'Re-open at two o'clock.' She led Sophie, still clutching Ricky's lead, through to the sitting room, and sat her down in a comfortable armchair.

'Don't move,' Peggy said. 'I shall be back in one minute.'

She returned with a glass and a bottle of brandy. 'Drink this,' she said, 'but not too quickly.'

Sophie sipped the brandy with shaking hands, and after a minute or two said, 'Peggy, I've done a very stupid thing. It is so stupid that I hardly dare think about it ...'

Peggy walked to the window and looked out. Maybe it will be easier for her if she doesn't have to see me, she thought. I think I know what's coming, anyway.

She waited for Sophie to begin, and watched old Fred, slipping and sliding, heading home from the pub. Jean Jenkins was helping Eddie to make snowballs on the Green, throwing them ineffectually at Mark. The children were in the school playground after lunch, making more noise than usual in the excitement of snowfall.

'And the worst of it, Peggy,' said Sophie, more fluent now after a hesitant start, and gulping down the last of the brandy, 'was that the more I ranted and raved, the more convinced I became that there was absolutely nothing in it. It was all for nothing, and I couldn't stop. I seemed to be listening to someone else . . .'

'Oh Sophie,' said Peggy, 'but are you sure you said really bad things? Maybe you just thought them, and in the heat of the moment thought you'd said them.'

She saw old Ellen looking crossly at the notice on the shop door. She turned away, walking off towards Bates's End and keeping to the middle of the road where it had been gritted and was comparatively safe. I shall have to send somebody down to ask if she wanted anything urgently, thought Peggy, can't have her coming up again today in this weather.

'I said them,' said Sophie. 'Oh yes, I certainly said them.'

Peggy returned to sit opposite the hunched figure, and tried desperately to think of something helpful to say.

'Look, Sophie,' she said, 'if Gabriella didn't say anything, just put down the phone, ten to one she won't do anything either. It will have to be sorted out, of course, but after the concert, when everybody's calmed down, you can see her and explain.'

She wondered whether to say anything about the rumours which had been rife in the village for weeks, but decided against it.

'I haven't told you the very worst,' said Sophie.

Peggy waited. The clock ticked away, and she saw there were only a couple of minutes left to opening time. Bang goes my lunch, she thought. I shall have to grab a sandwich between customers.

'I threatened to tell Greg,' said Sophie, 'said that maybe then he'd be able to keep her in order. Then I said ...'She stopped, and Peggy nodded encouragingly. 'I said,' whispered Sophie, 'that maybe Greg should keep his women under lock and key, for the peace of mind of the village.'

There was a small silence, and then Peggy began to splutter.

'You said that?' she said. 'Oh, Sophie, how absolutely ...' But she couldn't continue, as mirth welled up and threatened to burst out. She swallowed hard, and realised with shame that there would be no laughing Sophie out of it this time.

There was certainly no laughter in Barnstones. Gabriella had paced about the house, snapping at Octavia and watching the clock move at a snail's pace until it was time for Greg to be home from a school football match.

'Thank God,' she said, as his car appeared at last. 'Here,

Octavia, take my purse and run down to the shop. Bring a tin of that new soup, you can choose - off you go, now.'

Octavia, seeing her mother's desperate face, for once did as she was told, did it at once, without arguing.

'I might call in at the Brights- see if Tanya's there,' she said.

It was a pity that Gabriella did not register her daughter's unselfish thought, but she was already rehearsing her first words of explanation and appeal to Greg.

They sat by the leaping fire in their quiet, neutral sitting room. Greg had taken one look at Gabriella, and retired to the kitchen to open a Christmas bottle. She had begun at the beginning, with rumours spread by Ivy Beasley, and her own unthinking close association with Nigel over the concert. She blamed herself for blindness in not seeing Sophie's distress and ill-concealed jealousy.

'And it was all for nothing!' she said vehemently. 'I never even thought of him as a man, he's just a vicar in a long dress to me ...'

Greg looked at his wife, beaten and angry at the same time, her shining hair scraped back into an elastic band, and her face bare and sallow, with no make-up, stained with tears, and he felt a real stab of hate for the Brookses - for both of them. What a fool the man must be, how unsuited to his job. And that sniffy, carrot-haired Sophie, so superior and sure of herself. What a complete mess they'd made of something that could have been a great contribution to the village Christmas.

He reached out and took Gabriella's hand.

'Don't worry, Gabbie,' he said, his voice adder than usual, charged with emotion, 'you can leave it to me now, I'll sort it out. It is a very serious matter, and will need a great deal of thought.'

'I've told him the concert's off, anyway,' said Gabriella, Squeezing Greg's hand gratefully.

Greg frowned. 'Are you sure that's a good idea?' he said. 'It could look like an admission of guilt. I think you should carry on, keep your head high and make the concert a real triumph. Then the village will see you have nothing to be ashamed of, and the Brookses will look the complete fools they undoubtedly are.'

'But I've told him-’

'Leave it to me,' repeated Greg. He crossed to the telephone and dialled the vicarage. His face was set into stern, classroom-quelling lines.

'Mr Brooks?' he said. 'This is Jones here. I am ringing to tell you that Gabriella will be conducting the concert as planned. As to the other matter, you will be hearing from me in due course.'

A log of applewood spat, sending a glowing spark on to the shaggy cream-coloured rug, and Gabriella rushed to brush it back into the hearth. Greg put down the telephone and walked over to her as she straightened up. He put his arms round her and hugged her tight.

'I'll be there,' he said, 'and so will Octavia. Trust me, Gabbie, I could slay dragons for you when you look at me like that.'

They were still standing there when Octavia returned. 'Brights were out,' she said, 'and the shop was shut. But have you heard the latest on old Beasley? Robert's had to take her up to the farm, she went and collapsed in his arms. Why didn't I think of that?' She looked at her parents' faces, and added, 'What's up with you two anyway? Did the world come to an end while I was out?'

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

The choir had gathered early, as instructed. It was warm in the church, Mr Ross having put on the heaters two hours before, and the altos and sopranos took off their coats, revealing colourful outfits, some quite sparkly and festive, others more conservative, but newly bought for the occasion, and worn a little self-consciously,

Old Ellen had surpassed herself. Free of Ivy's restraining influence, she had selected a long black velvet skirt, a size or two too small, but well anchored with safety pins, and a dazzling blouse covered with gold sequins and once worn by Pat Osman during her ballroom-dancing phase. For warmth, Ellen had added a scarlet mohair stole, only a little moth eaten, and almost matching her carefully applied lipstick.

The men had had serious discussions about whether or not to wear dinner jackets, but in the end settled on dark suits and white shirts, in the interests of equality. It had been Nigel who had gently pointed out to Colin Osman that not all the chaps would necessarily have dinner jackets.

Gabriella had been first to arrive. She had brought Octavia with her, and the two of them arranged music and pushed chairs into the right places, until the side door of the church had opened, and Nigel had come in. His face shocked Gabriella. The usual pink, healthy complexion was grey, and his expression haunted. 'Good evening, Gabriella,' he said quietly, 'are we all ready?'

Octavia turned her back on him, but Gabriella nodded and managed an 'Uh-huh,' before sitting down at the piano and running through a series of conversation-stopping arpeggios. It was easier as the others began to arrive, and now she clapped her hands and called for a few la-las to warm up their voices before they retired to the vestry to line up in twos for the procession. The church was full, the atmosphere expectant.

Sophie slipped into the church through the side door, and crept into her place next to Pat Osman. The choir was ready, all bunched up and silent, waiting for the signal from Gabriella.

The lights in the church were dimmed, and a hush fell on the audience. The tall Christmas tree, cut from the plantation and safely anchored by Tom Price in half a beer barrel, twinkled and shed a glow on the swags of holly and ivy along the high windowsills.

Gabriella, waiting at the piano, played a soft chord, and from the vestry came a high, heavenly voice, echoing round the still, quiet church.

'Once in Royal David's city, stood a lowly cattle shed,' sang Octavia, a reluctant soloist, her naturally clear, true voice coached for the occasion by her mother.

Octavia's blonde hair, drawn neatly back with a black velvet hairband, shone in the flickering lights of candles carried by the choir, and her face was bland and innocent. The singers slowly processed round the aisles of the church, serious and concentrating hard, nervously acknowledging their friends and relations as they passed the ends of packed pews.

Once the concert got going, all Gabriella thought about was the music and the choir. She prompted readers to step forward smartly, and even smiled at Colin Osman as he launched into his solo spot, quavering on his high notes and losing the beat in his anxiety.

Every seat in the church was taken. The audience, chilly in their responses at first, soon warmed up, and, encouraged by Nigel to applaud, clapped loudly. The readings were popular, even when words were forgotten and stumbled over. Susan Standing's passage from Dickens was especially well received, not only because she read it very movingly, but because she was there, the squire's lady, doing her bit.

As Gabriella turned to announce the interval, the church door creaked open slowly. Puzzled, she waited before speaking, looking anxiously at the front pew. But Greg was still there, solid and reassuring, smiling at her and making thumbs up, going well, signs.

In the silence, several of the audience looked round at the slowly opening door. The lights had come up after the last item, and the doorway was spotlit, emphasizing its graceful Norman arch and ancient oak door.

Into the light, blinking but standing straight as a ramrod, stepped Ivy Beasley. She was pale as a ghost, but neat and smart in her best black coat and grey silk scarf, her hair smooth and curled under in the new style. She handed her ticket to a stunned Mr Ross, and muttered, 'Not too late for the second half, I hope.' Then she walked slowly and quietly to a seat in the back pew, waiting for a startled-looking Doris Ashbourne to make room for her.

As the audience slowly got to their feet and began milling about, mingling with the choir and offering comment and opinion on the show so far, old Ellen struggled down the chancel steps and made her way to the back of the church.

She found Ivy sitting in her pew, looking around with an apparently mild eye.

'Glad you made it, Ivy,' said Ellen generously. "Ow you feelin' now? Shall I get yer a cup of coffee?'

'Our Doris is gone for one already,' said Ivy, looking squarely at the old woman. Her voice grew stronger as she continued.

'I don't know what you think you look like, Ellen Biggs,' she said, 'but if you ask me, a cross between Guy Fawkes and the fairy on the top of the Christmas tree wouldn't be far off.'